When I first arrived in the Valley back in 1995, I promptly started looking for new bandmates. In that search, I came across singer/songwriters, some full of an earnest generosity of spirit, others whose work was inscrutable or even odd. (One of them proudly demonstrated what he called “women’s chords”—apparently the women he knew were really into C9, not to mention G.) I discovered rockers, some welcoming and helpful, others stony or introverted.
Finding one’s way in a new music scene can be a crapshoot, especially in one as various and multifaceted as the Valley’s. But in crossing paths with many flavors of musician and many subsets of the grander scene, I quickly discovered a constant. The ambitious retro rocker in obligatory tight T-shirt, the spectacled pop-rock constructor, the cagey jazz blower, all of them, unbidden, struggled to adequately express their admiration for the same guy: Ray Mason.
It seemed imperative to find out who they meant—inspiring universal praise as a musician is even rarer than discovering “women’s chords.” It didn’t take long to hear about his Ray Mason Band and his other main project, the Lonesome Brothers.
I first caught the Lonesomes at the Taste of Amherst, and was immediately blown away in the musicianship department. The country-ish grooves came spilling out of the speakers, deftly picked guitar lines intertwining with a just-right rhythm section, all of it topped by harmonious vocals. Jim Armenti’s Telecaster-wielding kept me interested for a whole set as he threw down with chicken picking, melodious leads and locked-in rhythm parts.
I couldn’t help but wonder about Mason—he seemed an unassuming fellow, playing his bass with an occasional half-smile, keeping a low profile but for the bright Converse All-Stars on his feet. I saw a different side of him when he picked up his guitar as frontman of the Ray Mason Band, but he remained an intriguingly understated guy even then. His songs were simple—deceptively so, it turns out.
It took me a few more years—by then in the role of Advocate writer—to get closer to completely understanding why Mason inspired such reverence. At the most basic level, it’s his songwriting. Mason is an interesting and witty lyric writer, and in rock, lyrics are all too often an afterthought. Mason delivers those lyrics in the context of smartly arranged retro-flavored pop, and with a distinctive voice; his timbre is weird in the best way, a sort of round-toned yawp of compelling proportions, a near-miss, almost talking delivery.
But perhaps more than anything, what makes Mason so well-loved is that he combines good musicianship and songwriting with stout confidence and singlemindedness.
Mason cuts an immediately recognizable figure, sporting his Converse Chucks, a long gray mane, and on stage, his standby Silvertone guitar. His Silvertone says a lot about him. Those old Sears guitars have seldom been thought of as deliverers of big tones. They’re strangely light, and sometimes ornery to play, and are usually first guitars, put down later in favor of Strats or Les Pauls.
When I interviewed Mason some years ago as part of the Grand Band Slam, I tried to pin him down about why he’s stuck by that old guitar. He said he liked how it sounded. I asked what about the sound was compelling. He said he just liked it. It was a good-natured conversation, true to form with Mason, but we circled around several iterations of the question. Finally, probably a touch exasperated, he said something along the lines of, “Well, it’s got a couple of knobs!” He laughed after he said it.
It probably seemed like an alien question to him because with Mason, it’s clearly not the guitar that matters. It’s only what comes out of it. He’s never been accused of pretentiousness, and if he played a $10,000 guitar, he probably wouldn’t sound all that different. Mason—and many of his compadres of a similar age—deserve their accolades for showing the rest of us how it’s done. Mason is still extraordinarily busy as a working musician, and he’s a worthy holder of the often-bestowed title “elder statesman” precisely because he’s spent years delivering top-shelf musical goods without a need for massive fanfare or gimmickry (or even a third knob). His dedication to crafting good songs that speak for themselves, to performing them with a grace that only comes courtesy of long experience, is a fine thing to behold.
Mason celebrates his 60th birthday with a show this week, and it’s a nice reminder that we’re lucky to have musicians like him around. And the music ought to be pretty good, too.
Ray Mason Band and Lonesome Brothers: Sept. 10, 7 p.m., $10/advance, $13/door, Iron Horse, Northampton, (413) 586-8686, www.iheg.com.
